


dream the painting, paint the dream

by lorata



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I wake up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost."</i> - Steve Rogers</p><p>Prim survived the bombing, but they can't erase the scars. (AU, obviously)</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream the painting, paint the dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



"Do you trust me?" Peeta asks. The sun shines down over the meadow, gilding his hair with gold. It's grown back now, no more short, rough bristles after the brain surgery and torture that almost took him away from them forever. 

He touches his finger to Prim's throat and tilts her head up to the side --

_his hands around Katniss' throat murder in his eyes his fingers digging digging searching for the jugular killer killer Katniss he's a killer and so are you_

\-- before letting his hand drop. Katniss lets out the breath that had risen in her chest, thankfully choking off the scream that would have startled them both and ruined everything. Too much screaming these days. She unclenches her fingers and rubs her hands over the grass; the blades tickle her palm and itch the crescent-cuts left by her nails and remind her to exhale.

Prim nods, reaching out and covering Peeta's hand with hers. The doctors fixed the burns but her throat will take time to heal, and she doesn't talk unless she has to. Sometimes late at night her croaking voice floats through the thin walls of their replacement house as she practices. Katniss pretends not to hear to give her some privacy.

They shaved her hair off, too, what didn't get singed off in the explosion that the doctors say she only survived out of pure stubbornness. It's coming back now, pale blonde curls that catch the breeze, trembling like the nerves in her left hand that will likely never settle.

"Okay, good." Peeta smiles. Prim trusts him and so does Katniss, because she has to, because without trust they have nothing. She trusts him. She does. 

_(Peeta tried to kill you, real or not real. You deserved it, real or not real. Real real real not real --)_

"Remember, these paints are temporary," Peeta says, and Prim nods. "Just to see what you think. We can try lots of different designs, and if you like one best I can use something more permanent. Though if you want to just keep changing them, we can do that too."

He picks up a paintbrush and dips it in blue, clear blue like the sky above them, like Prim's eyes, like the colour of her dress the day their lives changed forever. "Tilt your head," he instructs her. Prim does, leaning back on her hands and turning her eyes up to watch the clouds (she trusts him she trusts him she trusts him) and Peeta sweeps the brush over her skin.

He paints the sky on her neck in a swirl of blue, a smudge of white cloud at the curve of her jaw where the worst of the burns still ripple the skin. He mixes blue and grey into a stormy shade of charcoal, then flips the brush over in his hand; dips the handle and flicks it down the column of her throat, little dark swishes that resolve into a flock of birds. A dab of yellow and the sun shines bright on Prim's cheek; he trails the brush along her collarbone and leaves a smear of grass below her throat.

_(burning burning burning no grass because Twelve is burning, red red fire and sparks that hiss and stick to clothing, black smoke that rises and chokes the sky, white skulls that rattle when your feet hit them and send them skittering over the ashy ground)_

Prim giggles, and Peeta pulls back. "Sorry if it tickles," he says, but after he dunks his brush in the water and knocks it back and forth against the inside of the jar --

_cloudy cloudy the water turns dark and murky as the paint puffs out like blood, the morphling is dead Wiress is dead and the blood keeps coming_

\-- he swipes the clean bristles under the soft line of Prim's jaw, teasing her until she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and smacks him away. She's smiling.

Peeta hands her a small mirror, then picks up the paint-spotted rag and wipes his hands clean. He bends his head down, concentrating on a stubborn patch of blue stuck to his thumbnail, and the sun lights the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. There's a freckle just below the base of his hairline. Once Katniss brushed her fingers over his neck and he shivered, and sometimes, when the lights are low and his breathing is soft against her shoulder, his arm around her waist keeping the nightmares at bay -- when his own demons stay locked away and don't come near him, don't tear his mind to pieces with their claws -- Katniss imagines kissing him instead. But moments pass, and the good ones never seem to last.

"Katniss." Prim's hoarse whisper snaps Katniss' head up; if she's making the effort to talk through her ravaged windpipe, it's important. Prim reaches out and takes Katniss' hand, rubbing her thumb over the backs of Katniss' knuckles. "You should let Peeta paint you."

Peeta's shoulders hunch. He rubs the cloth over his hands, again again again, even after he scrubs the last traces of paint away. "It's okay," he mumbles, but it's not the sullen, wounded muttering from those awful, stretched-thin months between their victory and the tour, and Katniss relaxes. He glances at Katniss and gives her a small, tight smile. "I'm not sure what I'd paint anyway."

Katniss lets out another long breath, digs her toes into the dirt to anchor herself when the world tries to slip sideways. Prim holds her steady, and somewhere over the last two years the little girl with the untucked shirttails has become her older sister's rock. Katniss wets her lips, and Peeta clutches the paintbrush in tense fingers and stares at a point somewhere on Katniss' shoulder.

"Paint me flowers," Katniss says, and Peeta flicks his gaze at her. No more fire, no more mockingjays, and Katniss lifts her chin in defiance of all the symbols that have been carved into her skin since the day she volunteered. "Something from Twelve."

"Okay," Peeta says simply. He picks up his pallet and dips the brush in a patch of yellow, mixing it with cream to make the pale colour of a primrose blossom. He shifts his seat, stretching out his artificial leg and tucking the good one underneath him. He holds his brush hand awkwardly, hovering as he waits for permission.

( _Peeta's eyes black and dead and cold like a mutt's boring into her, mouth twisting words like poison dripping from his lips kill you kill you Katniss I'm going to kill you like you tried to kill me_ )

She meets his gaze. His eyes are wide and bright and clear, the pupils small dark circles in a calming sea of blue. 

Prim squeezes her fingers. Her sister is alive, and flowers are blooming in the meadow. Katniss swallows, then tips her head back and bares her throat.

 


End file.
